


there'll be bluebirds

by hetahonda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, FrUK, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Nationverse, Songfic, frenemies to lovers, this fic is incredibly self indulgent and i apologise in advance, three shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetahonda/pseuds/hetahonda
Summary: “Our most dear enemies,” Francis muses, taking Arthur’s hand in his own. “Funny how we’ve come to this point, no?”(Or, three moments in history between Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland.)
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. somewhere in france with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paris, 1904. As part of a diplomatic trip to France in preparation for the signing of the Entente Cordiale, Arthur is ordered to meet with an old friend.

Arthur regards the hulk of metal before him with a pointed stare, hands planted firmly on his hips. “Alright, France. What’s all this then?”

The look Francis gives him is not one devoid of irritation, despite the obvious fact that he was the one to so carefully prepare for the occasion. Arthur had noticed - from the overly polite greeting, the expensive suit, and _bloody hell, he even cut his goddamn hair._ But there is no need for any airs or graces, not anymore, now that there is no one around to judge but each other.

Francis must have gotten the memo that neither of them were interested in playing up pretences. He snorts, lips twitching in an irksome smirk with which his enemy-turned-ally had grown far too familiar over the years. “What’s all _this_? This tower has been the supposed pride of my nation for the past twenty years, my dear England, surely you can understand even that.”

“I wasn’t talking about your stupid tower.” Arthur folds his arms across his chest, a gust of wind blowing his coat back. “I was talking about _this_.” He gestures vaguely with one hand, as if expecting Francis to understand, not really caring if he doesn’t. “This whole - what do you call it - tour? What’s the point of it? Do they really think that this is my first time in France?”

Francis turns back to the tower. “Do you want the official or the unofficial reason?”

“Both, please.”

To the average passerby, England and France are but two more people in the Parisian crowd, two friends blending in perfectly while on a stroll around the city. To the average passerby, the two young men in their mid twenties do nothing to reflect the centuries of shared history and bloodshed. 

“The official reason is to strengthen Anglo-French relations. A courtesy call before the signing, if you will.” Francis balances a cigarette between his fingers and lights it, taking a deep drag. He exhales slowly, releasing the smoke gently in wisps. “The unofficial reason is because we are to be wed, and this date just makes things far less awkward for the wedding night.”

Arthur chokes on his spit. 

“I’m just kidding.” Francis regards Arthur with a side glance, a mischievous gleam shining in his blue eyes. It’s a gleam that Arthur has come to know far too well. “The unofficial reason is that our bosses really don’t want our meddling, so they’re trying to mooch us off each other.”

Arthur averts his gaze back to the tower. “And this is just your speculation?”

“Oh come _on_ , England.” A small grin tugs at the edges of Francis’s lips, and for some reason, it only irritates Arthur a little more. “Put aside your pride for a moment. Take it as an off day. Would you rather be in a stuffy meeting room all day,” - he throws an arm out, with all the flair of an over enthusiastic tour guide, “Or would you rather spend the day touring the most beautiful city in the world?”

“That’s subjective,” Arthur grunts. 

Subjective or not, Arthur lets Francis lead him down the twisting, cobbled streets of the city, past buildings of old, through the life and bustle of Francis’s people. Arthur is no stranger to France - be it stepping foot on French soil for trade or for war, but it’s funny how different the same country feels when his purpose for visit is suddenly deemed little more than frivolous. 

They stop by what Arthur recognises as the banks of the Seine, the blue-green strip of river stretching out for miles and miles before him. It’s cold, the early days of spring beginning its encroach on the city. Arthur feels a gust of cool air against his face, the metallic grip of the railing in his hands. For a moment, he forgets about being England, about the actual purpose of his visit - he feels like a tourist, even if just for a few, blissful moments. 

Francis is by his side, arms draped ever so elegantly over the railing, leaning back on the heels of his designer shoes. “Still a beauty after everything she’s been through, no?”

Arthur scoffs. “It’s a bloody _river,_ France.”

“And what are we but overglorified piles of dirt?” 

Arthur exhales sharply in amusement. Trust _France_ to be the romantic and the philosopher, even after all these years. “My most vivid memories of this lake are from fighting with you and your troops for a hundred dastardly years. Really is a lovely addition to the itinerary.” 

Francis laughs. Not the controlled, refined laugh he used for social obligations, for matters concerning appearance. It’s clumsy, boisterous, the one lacking his usual restraint and elegance, the one reserved only for his oldest and dearest enemy. “God, England, you were _quite_ the problematic teenager.”

“Speak for yourself, frog,” Arthur mutters. It’s not a busy day by the river. There’s the usual mass of families, young lovers, the occasional artist with sketchpad in hand, and the two fit right in the disjointed crowd of it all. A boat passes by, bringing with it the vibrance of excited tourist chatter. Somewhere, someone plays a tender tune on their guitar.

“I should be at work,” Arthur realises, a faint twinge of embarrassment pulling at his insides. “They’re drawing up negotiations while they delegate me to the side on my own affairs.”

“Such is the nature of our existence, is it not?” Francis hums. “To be tossed around by the winds of change, and the ever changing hands of our mortal superiors.” He doesn’t sound the least bit bothered - content, even, in his acceptance. “At least we’ll all still be here in another hundred years. You’ll still be here.”

Arthur doesn’t know why, but there’s a warm feeling buzzing in his chest. 

“Tell me, England. What do you think you would have been? If you were born human?”

The thought had crossed Arthur’s mind before, during meetings, during times of war, during negotiation after negotiation of alliances he’d swear would last longer than the last. To be born human - the idea of being born without obligation to anything other than to live was a fantasy in its own right. 

“I think I would have been a writer.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a pastry chef.” Francis smiles - there’s no hint of teasing to it, just that kindly way that never failed to make people trust him, the same one Arthur had always envied. “Quit thinking about work for once. Why can’t we just be two ordinary humans, on a tour of the most beautiful city in the world?

Arthur snorts. There it was again with the vanity. Still, for all the ups and downs of their relationship over the years, it always surprised him just how comfortable they had remained in each other’s presence. “If this were really a tour, you could have at least brought me on one of those boat rides.”

Francis lets out an amused chuckle. “Next time, England. Next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very kindly beta read by GwenChan and potatosocks, thank you!


	2. there'll always be an england

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> London, 1945. Arthur bumps into Francis amidst celebrations of the end of war in Europe.

The festivities had carried on late into the night - cheering, singing, dancing in full swing all throughout the streets of London. Arthur had been pulled into the tight hugs of too many strangers to count, the sound of music and the feeling of confetti tangling in his hair overwhelming in the giddy feeling of relief that still didn’t seem real. 

Arthur isn’t keen on going back to his home in London, not yet. He knows his phone must be going off - Churchill or his brothers or someone, demanding the attention of an England who isn’t quite ready to jump back into the pool of politics and responsibility just yet. An England who just wants to get smashed and drown the last few years of sorrows in the welcome respite of booze. 

So Arthur lets the crowd push against him, unconsciously guiding him down a familiar road and through the creaking salon doors that he had stumbled into far too many times in his life to count. 

The Red Lion had been his little place of refuge ever since its construction in the late 1700s. The familiarity of the little pub was comforting - from the distant melodies of violins or accordions that would always be playing from somewhere, to the rickety bar stools that balanced unevenly against its boarded floors, to the marks in the counter Arthur had left from one too many bar fights in his teenage years. It was the one place Arthur was fairly sure he’d kept out of the loving, watchful eyes of his monarchs, his prime ministers, where he could wrangle whatever was left of his privacy for a few precious hours. 

The pub is aglow with celebration, gaggles of rejoicing citizens - laughing, dancing, singing, some already smelling like alcohol. Cheering, cheering for him - long live the Queen, long live England. Arthur heads for his usual stool at the bar, orders an ale, and tries his best not to think about how the others are doing. 

“Her Majesty told me you’d be here!” 

Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin, spinning around to come to the utter realisation of - _of course it’s him_. His first instinctual reaction is hostility, expression pinched into a scowl, an insult to fling already weighing on his tongue. 

Still, it’s weird seeing Francis again. Not huddled together in the trenches - stinking of mud and gas and death, nor in a negotiation room - with either of their ministers breathing down Arthur’s neck. Francis’s hair has gotten so much longer than the last time Arthur had seen it - pretty blond locks he was always so proud of once again framing his face in that same familiar way. 

Arthur regards him with a raised brow, as Francis slides into the seat beside him. “Her Majesty told you _what_?”

“She told me I’d find you here.” Angling his stool to face Arthur, he tethers precariously on its back legs, blue eyes sparkling with that familiar sense of mischief. Arthur rolls his eyes and turns back to his drink. 

“So much for my one spot of privacy,” he grumbles, setting his glass down. Disappointed - but frankly - not really surprised. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your people back home? Why come here and bother me?”

Francis chuckles, tossing his head back in an airy way that revealed no sign of the past years of conflict. Jolly accordion music flits down from the floor above. Behind them, a group of schoolboys sing and stamp their feet to the rhythm of a drunken, uncoordinated dance. It’s a weird feeling - as if Arthur has no right being as relaxed as he is right now. 

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, England,” Francis smiles, idly twirling a lock of hair with a slender finger. “I’m making pit stops to visit friends. Fortunately for you, you’re just across the Channel from me.”

Against Arthur’s better judgement, he lets out a harsh snort of laughter. He can barely hear Francis over the roar of chatter and singing and laughter around them, but there’s no denying what he said. “Let me get this straight, France. The first thing you do after the war - is to rub shoulders and play diplomat to the rest of Europe? Christ, the first thing _I’m_ doing is getting blackout wasted in a pub.”

“Is it really playing diplomat if I want to see friends?”

Another snort. “Oh _please_. What do you want from me? I was not born yesterday.” He jabs a finger in Francis’s direction. “It’s really just surprising how fast you are in looking to curry favours, France. Friendships, alliances - whatever. It’s all the same, anyway. We both know that.”

To Francis’s credit, he doesn’t react. Not visibly, anyway - Arthur doesn’t expect him to, not in public. Francis has always been a man of appearance, double meanings and allusions bundled under sweet words and careful smiles and- 

And then he laughs - loud, full and endearingly obnoxious. 

Arthur hasn’t heard Francis laugh like that in a long time, not since that Parisian afternoon they shared back in 1904. 

When he finally stops, he sighs in an exaggerated, theatrical manner - as if Arthur had pierced his heart with a knife. “Oh England, how you hurt me so. Does everything need to have an ulterior motive with you? Why are you such a sad little man?”

That little feeling of adoration tugging at Arthur’s insides is immediately replaced with a defensive jolt of annoyance. 

Francis claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes - Arthur just realizes how tense he’s been. “We’re way past that stage, England - you forget how long we’ve known each other. If I truly wanted something from you, I’d ask outright. Perhaps I just want to have a drink with a dear friend to celebrate, hm?”

Arthur scoffs, but calls for two more drinks. 

They clink glasses, seated at Arthur’s favourite spot in The Red Lion - two stools right at the end of the bar. Francis comments on the English alcohol, drunken celebrators, how much worse bar music sounds in England than in France. Arthur pokes back with equal vigour. Arthur realizes that he really likes making Francis laugh. 

It’s nice being shrouded in ‘normalcy’ for a change - plied with beer, throwing jabs back and forth just for the heck of it. There’s that warm feeling again, but Arthur isn’t quite sure if it’s from the booze, or the company. 

Somewhere behind them, a group of merrymakers sing loudly to yet another patriotic ballade. 

Amused, Francis raises his glass in mock toast. “Well, God bless England.”

Arthur meets Francis’s glass with his own. “My name is _Arthur_ , France. It’ll do you some good to use it.”


End file.
